I see it coming.
I momentarily freeze.
Is it silver or grey?
My fist is poised and I’ve expertly gauged the distance between me and my daughter.
“Punch-buggy grey. No punch backs,” I yell. At the same time, I deliver a good shot to her shoulder.
She flinches and whines something about being hurt.
I advise her to suck it up.
An opportunity to deliver a sanctioned wallop to a kid without being dragged off by the ethics police is a right I intend on practicing and passing down to my children.
Did that translate to the page well?
What I actually mean is that I endorse the skills the game develops; quick thinking, accuracy, agility, speed and strength.
Wow, jock-speak really does make any form of contact sound acceptable. Cool.
Now that I’ve made a strong case for the sporting value of the game, I see it having more far reaching applications.
For example, is it at all possible that I live in a world where one day I may be walking beside my ex-husband when a VW beetle happens by, and while he’s blabbing on about what a bitch I am, I just haul off, punch the ass in the head and watch him drop?
“Punch-buggy green! Punch-buggy green!” I would proclaim while dancing around his limp body, my eyes glazed over in delirium.
Yes, in addition to sport, I’m taking the therapy angle on this one. I think I’m onto something.
Doesn’t each of us have some special person in our lives that has caused us enough pain to make our hands unconsciously curl into fists just thinking about them?
Mean Johnny from grade one (Wham!), a sibling (Smack!), a friend who’s betrayed us (Kerplow!), a nasty boss (Zing!).
No one’s off limits here. That’s the beauty of it.
Free, widely applicable therapy for all.
Okay, maybe my
fantasy example sounds like unfair play because if you know my ex, you know I have the advantage with him being so full of himself that he would never be attuned to anything going on outside the world in his head.
Well, to even the playing field, there are times that I am also at a disadvantage.
Take when I’m driving. I’m a sitting duck.
I try to impose a “no punching the driver” rule, but come on. Punch-buggy is practically a natural born reflex, and I’m certain my kids that nail me from the back seat have their repressed anger issues to work out too.
As a good role model I need to, as is the case with my daughter, suck it up and continue to drive steady.
On my bucket list is to rent a sweet little beetle for a day and just cruise neighbourhoods, alone, and watch people punch each other.
If I happen to see my ex out on the street and suddenly develop a lead foot in the name of therapy, well, I’m insured. It’s a rental.